


The Tales of the Posh Boy and the Dominatrix

by EBDaydreamer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Fluffy-ish, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9281006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EBDaydreamer/pseuds/EBDaydreamer
Summary: Sherlock decides to take John's advice.Thanks goes to my friend and beta, Phoenix_Rose.





	1. 'Do something, while there's still a chance'

He hadn’t intended to text her back this time. What exactly could he respond to ‘Happy Birthday. Let’s have dinner’ with? He’d be surprised if she was even in the country.

The cake was enjoyable, but the back of his mind kept replaying what John said to him - obviously built on his depression over losing his wife - yet it still lingered with him. It’d be a lie (one he’d thoughtlessly tell) if he claimed he didn’t enjoy their interactions; her intelligence was truly remarkable.  _ She  _ was remarkable.

That night, with Mrs. Hudson babysitting him, he’d showered, shaved and even eaten by the time he lay on his bed,  _ and _ it one of those rare times he had the intention to sleep.  His phone was charging by his bed, and without a thought, he unlocked it, scrolling through his twitter and texts.

He then got to the Woman’s text.

Fingers hovered over the screen, brain whirling. He felt his mind palace conjure up her image, a taunting smile playing with her devil red lips: a devil woman she was.

Yet John insisted that in spite of all that, he should ‘go after her’.

Sighing, anticipating the future regret, he typed ‘Thank you for the unnecessary greetings. Now John not only knows you’re alive, but when my birthday is. We had to have cake. At least Rosie was there to keep things entertaining. But I blame you if he throws me a party next year.’

His texts weren’t usually so lengthy, but he was trying to make himself appear irritated with her.

When his phone moaned not moments after, he was surprised, to say the least. He hadn’t expected another text for a few hours at least.

‘I’m not sorry. At least you got to spend time with Baby Watson. I’m in Amsterdam. Come find me and you can scold me. Maybe afterwards we can get dinner.’

‘You’ve heard about my condition. I’m being babysat.’

A voice - that sounded annoyingly like John’s - pointed out he didn’t exactly decline her offer. He shushed it and waited for her reply.

His phone gave out the moan that was becoming too familiar to his ears, and he grinned at the text:

‘Excuses. If Sherlock Holmes can sneak past Big Brother he can sneak past whoever’s supposed to be looking after him. Let’s have dinner.’

His first impulse was to ignore her, then another nagging voice (though this didn’t sound like anyone in particular) insisted that it’d been too long. Besides, if he were to be without drugs and banned from cases as punishment for god knows how long, he might as well go for the next best form of stimulation (or as John so eloquently put it ‘kicks’).

A part of him groaned at his stupidity whilst the other celebrated in glee.

‘Give me a few hours until Mrs Hudson is asleep after her ‘herbal soother’.’

‘I look forward to it, Mr. Holmes.’


	2. 'You bloody moron!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was supposed to be a one-shot but now I have about three more already written and ideas for more. Oops.

Groaning from the brief disorientation, Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow as he began to remember where he was. His internal body clock was off by an hour according to the clock on the wall. He didn’t recognise the room, but through his blurry vision he could make out some of the paper’s on a nearby table; a mixture of English and Dutch. Belgium or the Netherlands then. Why on Earth would he-

“Oh yes”, he realised as he registered the body next to him, “following John’s advice.”

Irene had her back to him, and she had curled the sheet around her front, leaving half his body exposed. She was shivering, likely because the heat of his body had moved away during the night. He always did prefer sleeping more-or-less on his stomach.

Suspecting that by now, Mrs Hudson had realised he was missing and had informed everyone else, Sherlock knew he should probably check his phone to reassure them that he was, indeed, alive and was, in fact, sober. But the act of retrieving his phone from wherever he dumped his coat last night and leaving the bed wasn’t at all appealing. Instead, he decided to be a gentleman (his parents did raise him to be one - he just usually chose to ignore it) and help Irene warm up by wrapping his arm around her and pressing her against his chest.

“For a moment there I thought you were leaving,” she purred sleepily.

He gave a light snort, “Even if I were we both know you wouldn’t let me get very far.”

She grinned, looking positively radiant in the morning sunlight creeping in between the crack in the blinds. “What time is it?”

“Around 8:30.”

“We should get up.”

“We should.”

Neither made any indication they were moving from their current position.

“Five more minutes?”

“You did have a tiring trip.”

*

Eventually, they did muster up the energy to remove themselves from the bed after Irene’s insistence she take a shower. Whilst she was in there, Sherlock checked his phone and unsurprisingly saw numerous texts and missed calls from John, Mrs Hudson, Molly and even a few from Mycroft. They must be worried if they’d got his brother involved.

As he contemplated who to reassure first, he heard Irene step out of the bathroom. He glanced up as she strolled in, a towel wrapped around her - for warmth’s sake, not modesty - and a mischievous glint in her eye.

He couldn’t help the slight smile: this was the one true reclusive he allowed himself. Cases and drugs always sent his brain into a whirl, and that’s what he wanted. But even he needed days off (though that particular need never arose when John wished), and he couldn’t think of anything better than distracting himself with her.

“How much trouble are you in?” she asked, appearing the complete opposite of guilty at making his friends worry about him so soon after his latest near-death incident.

“A fair bit,” he replied. Although his conscience (aka John) told him he should text them all back immediately, his body longed for a shower. Public planes never did agree with him - too many people. Though his journey was made more interesting by the child he was sat next to; he wasn’t bothered by her questions once she realised she was sitting next to ‘that detective from the papers!’ He never minded quenching a child’s curiosity, and he waved away the mother’s apologises, still feeling a little regretful for perhaps slightly traumatising the children at the hospital (though Culverton was primarily to blame for that). 

Neglecting his conscience, his desire for a wash won over, as he quickly noticed Irene had left the shower on for him and he couldn’t ignore the inviting sound. 

*

Stepping out of the bathroom, feeling slightly more refreshed, Sherlock registered a voice - Irene’s, obviously - chatting away happily. Automatically, Sherlock’s brain began to churn, as he wondered who on Earth she could be talking to.

Entering the living area, he saw Irene, a dressing gown draped over her body,  _ his  _ phone pressed to her ear.

The Woman spotted him, halting whatever story she was telling to smirk at him. After a brief moment, she returned to the person on the other end of the phone, “Yes, Dr Watson, he’s here. I’ll pass you on, shall I? Nice catching up with you.”

Sherlock snatched up the phone, sending her a scathing glare before addressing John.

“Would you please tell everyone I’m perfectly fine and nowhere near any  _ sweeties _ ,” he snapped.

“Sherlock!” John spoke before he could hang up. The man growled in a way that was all too familiar. “This might actually be the time I kill you.”

“Oh come on,” Sherlock almost laughed. “I’ve done far worse than this. Shot the wall. Got your girlfriend kidnapped. Nearly broke everything in the flat. Thought I was drugging you. Pretended a bomb was going to kill us. Was  _ dead _ for two years-”

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” he interrupted, a hint of agitation in his voice. There was a moment before he spoke again, likely so he could get his breathing to return to somewhat normal. “Please don’t say you got tips on how to be dead from Irene Adler. No, don’t tell me. Where the hell are you?”

“Well, I  _ believe  _ I’m in Miss Adler’s flat-”

“ _ Sherlock _ ,” John warned.

He chuckled to himself, “Amsterdam.”

“What the hell are you doing in Amsterdam?”

“Well you didn’t seriously think High Wycombe would be safe for her - what with Mycroft believing she’s dead.”

“What were you playing at?” John hissed, “Taking off like that. You nearly gave Mrs Hudson a heart attack! Not to mention Mycroft is-”

“What I’m doing, John,” he paused, looking up at Irene who was poised against the doorframe, a wicked grin on her face, lounging at just the right angle that what was below the dressing wasn’t quite on display. He never considered his opinion’s on a person's physical appearance - the concept of human beauty seemed completely irrelevant and pointless to him - however, there was only one word he could think to describe her in this stolen moment: stunning.

She raised an elegant brow at his stares and silence, and he would be unsurprised if she had guessed his thoughts. She was annoyingly good at reading him.

Steering his thoughts away from the Woman’s attractiveness, he replied to John, not breaking eye contact with her for a second.

“I’m following your advice.”


	3. 'Play you'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one isn't really Adlock but I have Holmes siblings feelings.

“Play you,” she instructed.

“Me?”

“You.”

The first notes are in his head before the bow touches the strings, before he can even think what would be ‘playing him’. He didn't know what possessed him to play The Woman's tune, yet the second the first note sang off the strings and his body went on autopilot, he knew he that this was ‘him’ - the deepest parts of him. It represented the core of his emotions; physically, romantically, and of course…

“Oh! Have you had sex?”

The concentrated scrunch of his brows unfolded, and he felt his pulse elevated. How the hell had she known from those so few notes? When he wrote this he and Irene hadn't even-

Oh.

Did his blindingly obviously sentiments date to all the way back then?

No wonder John insisted he had feelings for The Woman.

“Why do you ask?” he kept his tone steady, not letting himself reveal anything: Mycroft was watching after all.

“The music. I've had sex,” she announced. Sherlock felt himself get a tad uncomfortable, and finally felt himself understand the dislike for discussing one’s family members sex life.

“How?” Well he had to know, didn't he? Bleach was always available to his brain later.

She appeared thoughtful, wandering inside her memory. “One of the nurses got careless. I liked it. Messy, though, people are so breakable.”

He choked down the small amount of bile that rose in his throat and focused on the melody, continuing his questions, “I take it he didn't consent.”

“He?” she asked, seeming surprised, offended, even a little bit scolding.

Sherlock fought the urge to point out that he didn't exactly have a way of knowing, considering he'd forgotten her. What could possibly have been so tragic that he erased his own sister completely? He tried again, “She?”

She shrugged, “Afraid I didn't notice in the heat of the moment and afterwards,” she paused, and Sherlock could see his hand begin to waver as dread filled him. “Well, you couldn't really tell.”

He kept his stare on her. Never had he had to put so much effort in keeping his face emotionless, and still he felt like he was failing spectacularly, and Eurus could see the fear and disgust all too plainly. It felt almost sick, playing the song he wrote in honour of Irene whilst she described revolting acts he assumed were only minor to her. Irene may be a manipulative sex worker but he recalled one meeting where they watched crappy old films and he somehow received a lecture on the importance of consent - especially in her field of work.

“Is that vibrato or is your hand shaking?”

And with that he ceased playing, removing his thoughts away from Irene Adler to his psychotic sister.

*

It was ironic, how warm stepping inside the building was when you considered the people in there were enough to make even the bravest warrior’s blood turn cold. But nevertheless, no matter the season, the air was glacial every step it took to get from the helicopter to the prison, and Sherlock’s fingers were numb as they gripped his violin case. He was almost used to the feeling, he visits had become regular enough.

He was led to Eurus’ cell with ease now, the non-enslaved guards recognising him instantly. Besides, it wasn't like this place got a lot of visitors.

Once in Eurus’ room, he shed his coat and retrieved the violin. “Hello Eurus,” he greeted. Wordlessly, she took one glance at him before rushing to her violin, getting ready to play. He smiled affectionately at her childlike actions: she still hadn't spoken, and apparently these visits were the only real response anyone ever got from her.

Resting the violin under his chin, he spoke to her before raising his bow. “We're going to do something a little different today, sis,” he told her, grinning as he addressed her. Over the past few months he'd grown attached and near-protective of his little sister, and he'd started to look forward to instead of dread their time together. He no longer worried about saying the wrong thing or triggering her in any type of way - not until today.

“I know last time Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft were all here, and they thought you were wonderful, by the way,” he added, knowing that her eyes would light up at the mention of her parents and siblings thinking she had done something good. “But this time we're going to play something a little different, is that ok?”

When he got no clear negative response, he carried on, “When I first came here, you told me to ‘play me’ and I,” he chuckled to himself, “I admit subconsciously the song probably was ‘me’ but I wrote it about someone else-  _ for _ someone else, really.” He finally raised his bow. “So Eurus, I'm going to teach you a song, in honour of a truly spectacular woman:  _ The  _ Woman.”

And like clockwork, he began to play.


	4. 'You know where to find me'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back to your regularly scheduled adlock.

She opened her flat - sorry, apartment - door to hundreds of roses, scattered carelessly across the floor. She knew they were from him: he had found her.

From the bedroom she heard the screeching of a violin being tuned and sighed: what the hell was he playing at?

It had become a game of theirs; her lifestyle caused her to move every few months or so, leaving him a small clue to help him find her, until either a) he guessed it and occasionally paid her a visit or b) one of them gave in and he asked her or she told him. Last time she'd lost, telling him she was in Amsterdam, but he honestly deserved it - a ban on both drugs and cases had to be driving him insane.

It seemed he’d won this round - though he so nearly lost it just a few weeks ago when he text her: ‘You know where to find me’. Alas, at the time, she’d been busy with her move here from Amsterdam, and no amount of temptation could have dragged her away.

Well, he could have begged.

She entered the bedroom, slouched against the doorframe. He was lay flat on her bed, head the only thing elevated in order to support the instrument. In the dim light of her room, he looked almost romantic - a tight-fitting shirt and a violin surrounded by god knows how many roses - not that she'd ever tell him that, lest she put him off from doing it again.

“What are you doing here?”

The noise from the violin ceased, but his gaze remained focused on the instrument. “I came to relay my problems. I believe they call it therapy.”

She scoffed, “There are professionals you can pay to do that, you know, and they do exist in England. The good doctor used to have one, I believe.”

He snorted in return, “Please, the one sane living person in the world who has a brain similar to mine is you - a therapist would be useless.”

She rolled her eyes, kicking off her shoes and crawling next to him in the bed. “Alright,” she lounged sideways into her pillows, “what's going on in that big brain of yours?”

“My psychotic sister,” he explained. Irene hummed in sympathy; he'd texted her not long after it happened.

“What about her? Still troubled over what she did t-”

“No,” he cut her off sharply, evidently unwilling to talk about that just yet. “No,” he repeated softly, “it's something that happened in our first encounter. She gave me a violin and told me to ‘play me’. So I played a song I had composed-”

“Which one?”

“About you,” he finished.

“Oh,” Irene whispered, not really sure what else she could say. 

Finally, he glanced at her, features softening by a fraction as he did. “The strange thing is that from the first couple of notes she worked out that w- I'd...had sex.”

Irene shifted her arm away from under her head in a shrugging motion. “Well,” she reasoned, “she  _ is _ a Holmes.”

“I wrote it before then,” he explained.

Now that was interesting. How long had the detective had these feelings towards her? Shortly before Karachi, perhaps? After the reveal of her password? “When?”

The answer came quietly, almost as if embarrassed. “After your first death.”

Now, that was interesting. She knew she had gotten under his skin by that point, but for him to be able to portray such feelings in music that his genius sister thought they’d actually had sex by the time he wrote it was… Well; Irene didn’t quite know how to describe it.

“Oh,” she repeated.

“Oh indeed,” he sighed, raising his bow.

Neither said a word as Sherlock began to play, and instantly Irene heard the affection and sensuality that had gone into the song. Irene had received a lot of gifts in her time: ex-husband, clients, friends … but nothing flattered her as much as this. If the camera phone was her heart then the violin was most definitely his, and it was telling her that she was beautiful and talented and amazing.

Feeling blood rush to her cheeks, she tried to hide the blush by laying down next to him, letting the sweet melody wash over them.


	5. 'Nights of passion in High Wycombe?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should've been up days ago, but real life got in the way and there wasn't much time. But here it is!

It was the first thing he checked when they arrived in the wreck of 221B.

Horribly sentimental of him - he could’ve at least gone to his bedroom to check on his dressing gowns first - though he was beginning to realise that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.

Except with  _ her _ . It was always a bad idea with  _ her _ .

The desk wasn’t standing, but at least it seemed the contents had been somewhat shielded by the wood. His earha- deerstalker was completely ruined, but he could always get a new one. He’d probably get one for Christmas knowing his friends, or as a congratulations on a case. He was Sherlock Holmes, he wore the damned hat. There were other bits and pieces in there that were also ruined: the rose, the card, little mementoes from his time officially deceased. Underneath all that he found it; he found the first present The Woman gave him.

Her phone.

Somehow, despite the devastating explosion, the bloody phone survived: worse for wear around the edges, but mostly undamaged. It made it through the roughest the world could throw at it and came out on top; just like her.

Bloody Woman.

*

It was a regular morning in Baker Street: tea was being made, crap telly was being played, Mrs Hudson was cleaning, the lab equipment was out, little Watson was being difficult, big Watson was being difficult, and Sherlock was waiting irritably for a case.

He was always a little bit more on edge the day after seeing Eurus, so naturally everyone was cautious around him, even Rosie seemed to sense something was wrong with Uncle Sherly (and he would viciously destroy anyone else who ever called him that). He was playing with the tot whilst John was downstairs getting something or other from Mrs Hudson - he wasn’t really listening.

As he looked at Rosie’s innocent, cheerful face, the need for a case (or a cigarette) was significantly lowered. If only he could occupy himself with the child all day, but alas he’d have to pass her back onto her father soon enough.

“Hey, Sherlock!” John called.

“Speak of the devil,” he muttered to himself, eliciting another giggle from Rosie. “Yes, John?”

“You expecting mail?” he asked, strolling through the door of 221B with an envelope in hand.

Sherlock stood, exchanging Rosie for the letter, addressed simply to ‘Sherlock Holmes’.

Sherlock laughed, recognising the handwriting instantly: today wouldn’t be so dull after all.

He tore into the paper, not noticing the spherical bump until the dark, minuscule object was by his feet. Picking it up, he held it to the light, recognising it from a case Mycroft tried to recruit him on nearly a year ago.

The Borgias Black Pearl.

( _ ‘Mycroft’s trying to get me to find the Black Pearl of the Borgias. What do you know?’ _

_ ‘Sorry, dear. Not much, I’m afraid. I’ll see what I can do’) _

He’d first texted her about it when he thought it was what was hidden inside one of the Margaret Thatcher busts. He’d seen her three times since then - once in Prague after Mary died, once in Amsterdam on John’s advice, and once in New Jersey because he had a lot on his mind and fancied a break (he absolutely did  _ not  _ spend days trying to work out where she was) - not once did either of them bring up the pearl. Now here it was, on the doorstep of 221B, inside a letter which read:

_ You’re welcome. _

_ I’ll give you two more clues: it’s been suggested before and you’ll probably think I’m idiotic _

_ W _

Adding his new knowledge to what he already knew about her current whereabouts, Sherlock didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. So he decided upon both. Amused exasperation: his relationship with The Woman in a nutshell.

“I’m off out, John. Don’t wait up,” he informed, grabbing his coat, scarf and something out of his desk drawer.

John turned his gaze away from Rosie to Sherlock. “Got a case?” he inquired relief slipping into his tone.

“Just solved one, actually.” He cooed down at Rosie in goodbye, before heading towards the door.

“Wait,” John stopped him, “where are you going? Y’know, just in case you’re not back by the morning.”

“Oh, I should imagine I won’t be,” he smirked. “I’m off to High Wycombe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one I have written for now, but I could always come back to it if inspiration hits.


	6. 'Who loves you?'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates his relationship with The Woman.

“I imagine it isn’t a very long list.”

At the time, Sherlock had barely registered what Mycroft’s question; far too busy hearing all the pieces click into place as he realised who the coffin was for.

In all honesty, he expected Mycroft to be right - he wouldn’t think the list to be very long, and six years ago it wasn’t. Six years ago, he’d barely put his parents on the list. Six years ago, even those who tried to care for him wouldn’t make the list. Six years ago, he barely remembered what love was.

Now, he let himself contemplate his brother’s words. Over the course of six years, ever since John came into his life and he moved under Mrs Hudson’s roof, he’d learned to care and even how to love others, meanwhile realising just how deeply he could love. Now, he could happily list his overbearing parents along with Lestrade, whom he no longer viewed as merely a means to his next high. He could list Mrs Hudson who brought him tea every day - not because she was his housekeeper, but because she cared. He could list the Watson’s: the man who taught him the care, the woman that trusted him, and his darling goddaughter. He once could’ve listed Victor Trevor, the friend that made him who he was today. He could list Molly, whose friendship he valued deeply and had carefully worked to restore. He could even list his siblings, who both cared in their own, unique way.

Then there was John’s suggestion.

John believed him to be in love with the Woman, or at least have some romantic attachment towards her that would ‘complete him as a human being’. Despite learning how to love, he didn’t know if he was capable of  _ romance _ , and the overwhelming amount of intimacy and openness that it required. She too seemed hardly eager to jump into declarations of love, though she definitely understood it better than him. Did he care for Irene Adler? Absolutely, there was no arguing the incredibly dangerous rescue mission he took for her. And yes, he felt they’d reached a level of open and vulnerable intimacy during their time in Karachi, and that time in Paris...and New York, Rio de Janeiro, Montenegro, Sorrento, Finland, Turkey, Prague, Amsterdam, New Jersey and, most recently, High Wycombe. But to be in love? No, most definitely not. That wasn’t for either of them.

When he considered it, he knew that his relationship with Irene was the closest he was capable to a ‘romantic relationship’. He regarded her as an admirable intellectual sparring partner, a talented work associate, and most definitely a thrilling sexual partner.

_ Partners _ , he liked that.

The Woman and he would never be in love, or have a typical romantic relationship, but he held some kind of love for her, and they shared an intimacy he never had, and never would again share with anyone else. Their guards were at their lowest and their highest around each other, depending on the situation. They communicated in many ways unique to them: words and body. John might tell him this is what a romantic relationship entailed, but again: that wasn’t for either of them.

He brought this up with her in High Wycombe, after discussing the Black Pearl, having dinner, having  _ dinner _ and debating the stupidity of her relocation to the UK...not necessarily in that order.

She gave a lazy chuckle when he questioned if she thought they’d ever have that kind of relationship, replying, “Oh dear God, no. Not a chance, darling. Far too ordinary for us, don’t you agree?”

“Obviously,” he freed his arm from underneath her and rolled onto his back, letting out a deep sigh as he did.

She shifted so she could see him, read his expression and seek his inner thoughts - of which she has proven to be particularly good at finding.

“Then why do you ask? You didn’t seriously worry that I thought that, did you? If so, Mr Holmes, you flatter yourself far too much,” she grinned.

“Don’t worry, Miss Adler, I assure you I wasn’t.” He didn’t meet her gaze, focusing on the ceiling. “It was just something...when we were at Sherrinford.”

“Ah,” she realised. She knew that his first encounter with his sister was a particularly emotional topic for him. “What was it?”

“You remember the coffin for Molly Hooper?” He heard her hum in recognition. “Well, when Mycroft asked who it was, he stated it wasn’t a very long list, and the John recommended you.”

She rolled over onto his chest, forcing him to face her. “Hmm,” she ‘thoughtfully’ traced her fingers around his chest. “And is it? Who loves you, Mr Holmes?”

“More than I thought.” He began to retaliate by steadily drawing circles up from her lower waist to her shoulder blade, revelling in the goosebumps that formed underneath his touch. “It’s a shame that when playing the Game, loved ones tend to be weaknesses.”

“Indeed,” she breathed, inching her face closer to his. Her delicate fingers strolled carefully across his collarbone, inching their way up his neck as he choked, feeling constricted in the lack of oxygen between him and Irene.

He knew she understood the dangers of loved ones all too well, a solid reason to keep herself distanced from...well, everyone. “And did you want to know,” she whispered, as their noses grew a hair width apart, “if you should add me to the list?”

He stopped his fingers in the middle of her back, dragging them down to meet her ribcage. He tapped a nonsensical rhythm teasingly light against them, resisting the urge to grin at her heightened breathing rate and quicker pulse. He leaned forwards off the bed, lips brushing momentarily against her ear before challenging, “You tell me, Miss Adler.”

He leant back and saw that her pupils had doubled in size, and this time he couldn’t hold back the smirk.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, “I love working with you.” She slid her hand down his chest, landing where her lips had just been, “Tracking down the dangerous and kicking some arse.”

She kissed his shoulder, “I love playing our game; the rush, the anticipation of waiting for you to find me. Seeing if you’ll come.”

She kissed his jaw, her voice dropping drastically, “I love the song you wrote about me.”

She kissed his forehead and he tightened his grip on her, “I love that big, sexy brain of yours.”

She kissed his cheek before muttering in his ear, and he could feel her smirk, “And I  _ love _ the sex.”

Before he could move again, she had pushed herself back, allowing him to see her face properly. She spoke again, her voice back to its normal volume, a taunting smirk on her lips, “And I guess your company isn’t so bad.”

Not allowing her to make another move, he pulled her down, crashing her lips to his. After a Lord he didn’t believe in knows how many minutes they broke apart in a sigh of relief, and it registered to him that, though her words were genuine, their bodies had been playing a familiar game - one he’d just lost.

She beamed in victory, cheeks flushed with something else entirely. “I suppose,” she pondered, “I do love you, Mr Holmes - just as you love me. But not at all in the way Doctor Watson assumes.” She kissed him briefly on the lips, before finally confirming his theory, “That’s just not for us.”

_ No _ , he thought,  _ it’s not. _

But ordinary people are boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found some time to write! Yay!


End file.
